


Hippie Guitar Guy

by missmichellebelle



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Elevators, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 07:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1217560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris never thought elevators <i>actually</i> broke down. Okay, no, he <i>knows</i> they do, but with people actually stuck inside of them? Outside of movies and TV, when does that <i>actually</i> happen to people?</p><p>Now, apparently, and to him. He feels like he’s starring opposite Tom Hanks in a romantic comedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hippie Guitar Guy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a snippet from a bigger piece I never finished, and I love it so much I'm just going to go ahead and post it. The theme for the bigger fic was going to be 50 different AU meetings, and this is one of them.

Chris never thought elevators _actually_ broke down. Okay, no, he _knows_ they do, but with people actually stuck inside of them? Outside of movies and TV, when does that _actually_ happen to people?

Now, apparently, and to him. He feels like he’s starring opposite Tom Hanks in a romantic comedy.

“Of course,” sighs the guy who happens to be in the elevator with him. Who is _trapped_ in the elevator with him. Chris spares him a lengthier glance than when he first got in the elevator—he’s no Tom Hanks, but he’s not bad at all. He’s definitely attractive, dressed in slightly loose-fitting jeans and a graphic tee that’s a little on the tight side. He’s barefoot. “Fucking typical.”

Chris looks away before he gets caught staring, focusing instead on the blueish glow of the emergency lights that are keeping them from being in complete darkness. He wishes there was someone else in the elevator, if only because his own silence is making him feel uncomfortable, but he really has no idea what people say or do in these sorts of situations. Have deep, insightful conversations about life and death? Share secrets and weights they’ve been carrying with them for years? Become overwhelmed with sexual tension and end up fucking?

His eyes dart over to the stranger and away again. Movies and television have left him _woefully_ unprepared.

He quietly clears his throat, except that the elevator is practically silent and so it isn’t very quiet at all.

Barefoot Guy looks at him.

“Does this, ah, happen often?” Chris asks, feeling ridiculously uncomfortable.

“Just, like... Once a week,” the guy offers with a roll of his eyes, but he’s smiling and seems to be in a much better mood than he had a few minutes ago.

“Just,” Chris echoes, a little hollowly, and berates Ashley for not saying as much. He knows she hasn’t lived in the building very long, but surely she’s run into this problem before? It’s not that Chris has a problem with small spaces, or the dark, or the thought of possibly plummeting to his death (that’s _never_ going to happen), and while he doesn’t enjoy awkwardly forced social situations, he can live through them. He just doesn’t particularly like how much control he no longer has on the situation—he is in this elevator until someone gets them out or it starts to move again.

“I take it you don’t live here,” the guy surmises, and Chris looks at him in confusion, eyebrow quirked.

“How would you know that? I could live here.” He doesn’t, but there’s no way this guy knows that.

The guy laughs.

“Well, almost everyone here doesn’t chance taking the elevator.” He shrugs.

“You took it,” Chris points out.

“Yeah, that—I was just going down to check my mail. I thought it would be fine.” He pulls a face. “I live on the seventh floor.”

Ouch. Chris wonders how many times this guy has to go up and down the stairs on a daily basis, and then has to manually stop himself from leaning back to check out his ass. There’s no way a workout like that wouldn’t have _some_ effect...

“On top of that, I’ve never seen you before.” Grinning, he holds out his hand. “I’m Darren.”

Chris hesitates for approximately four seconds before shaking Darren’s hand. “...Chris. But you can’t possibly know everyone who lives here,” Chris points out, feeling contrary. “I mean, you’re right, I don’t, but this building is _huge_.”

“I’m friendly,” Darren replies, simply. “And I have a thing for names and faces.” His eyes flick over Chris, and Chris wishes that he’d had a chance to really look at them before everything was bathed in colored light. “But since you seem to be a nonbeliever, I’ll prove it. Who are you visiting?” Darren bounces on his toes.

“...a friend,” Chris answers, suspiciously. Okay, Darren is hot and kind of adorable, but he’s still a _stranger_. He might seem perfectly charming and normal, but even the nicest people can have some pretty messed up things hidden in their closets.

Like bodies, or iron maidens.

But Darren gives him an unamused look, and Chris’s reservations disappear under the weight of his extremely obvious avoidance.

“Fine. Her name is Ashley.”

“Sixth-floor Ashley, or second-floor Ashley?” Darren asks, and then his look turns borderline judgemental. “Please say sixth, otherwise I’m judging you hardcore.”

Chris cracks a smile.

“Yes, sixth.”

“Great.” Darren smiles again and nods, then presses his hand to his chin as he concentrates.

“Sarcastic, but in that loving way. Can make a margarita that could tank a hippo. Hits on me _at least_ once every time I talk to her.” Darren glances over and no doubt sees Chris looking mildly impressed—that sounds pretty spot-on so far. “She either doesn’t remember my name, or insists on calling me Guitar Guy.” Darren blinks. “Or Hippie.”

Chris’s eyes widen and he feels his jaw drop.

“ _You’re_ Hippie Guitar Guy?” Chris squeaks, and Darren looks a little taken aback and also entirely too pleased.

“You’ve heard of me?” His voice dips a little lower, and his tips his chin down enough to look coquettish. “Good things, I hope.”

A part of Chris wonders, _Is he flirting with me?_ but the rest of him is focused elsewhere.

Darren lives in the apartment right above Ashley’s, and Ashley has no reserves about sharing info on her upstairs neighbor. Chris knows that Darren plays music at all hours of the day, and that, when he dances, it sounds like someone “tranquilized a baby elephant.” He knows that Darren cooks meals that make Ashley salivate, and that when he makes cookies, he tends to bring them around to other tenants. He knows that Darren has a penchant to wander around the complex shirtless, and that he has an ass that won’t quit.

Chris also knows that Darren is very, _very_ loud when he has sex.

He flushes, trying to keep himself from thinking about it, from thinking about how he hadn’t believed Ashley’s exaggerations until she’d called him and—

“So you like to play the guitar at 2am, huh?” Chris rushes to say, his voice coming out higher pitched and slightly breathless. There’s no way Darren doesn’t notice, but he doesn’t mention it; he just looks appropriately abashed.

“Bad stuff, then?”

 _You moan like a pornstar_ , Chris thinks, and he can feel his cock stirring at the memory of it. Oh god, is this going to turn into one of those overwhelming sexual tension situations?

But, as if some kindly force takes pity on him, the lights flicker back on and the elevator lurches into motion again. It gives Chris a moment to breathe.

The elevator dings cheerily as it reaches the sixth floor, and the doors slide open. It takes Chris a few seconds to realize that this is where he’s supposed to be getting off, and he rocks forward a step.

“I guess this is me,” Chris says, unsure how you say goodbye to a stranger you’ve been trapped in an elevator with for a short time. A stranger whose sex noises Chris just happens to be semi-acquainted with.

“Guess so.” Darren smiles a little wryly. “Figures the one time I want to be stuck in this thing for an hour...”

“What?” Chris asks, dumbly, eyes widening.

The elevator decides he’s taking too long, the doors starting to close, and so Chris jerks forward to stop it--Darren’s foot gets there first.

“Do you have a pen?” Darren asks, cutting off any further questioning Chris has (because _what?_ ).

“Um.” Chris stares at him for a few seconds before the question registers, and then he fumbles for the ballpoint he happens to have in the pocket of his jacket.

“Thanks,” Darren says with a grin, and then grabs Chris’s wrist as he uncaps the pen with his teeth. He starts to write, or draw, or something, on the side of Chris’s hand—the sensation tickles. “If you’re ever in the building, or whatever.” Darren’s voice comes out muffled around the pen cap shifting around between his lips. When he let’s go of Chris, Chris immediately looks at his hand, curious--Darren’s written a phone and apartment number down, presumably _his_ phone and apartment number.

“...okay?” Chris’s voice turns up in a question with, unsure and confused as to what is happening. Then Darren hands the pen back and gives Chris a gentle push out of the elevator.

“See you, Chris-from-the-elevator.” And then Darren’s gone.

Chris stares at the closed metal doors, then at his hand, and then at his pen.

It’s capless, and Chris grins.

 


End file.
